Where to Start
by Angel Leviathan
Summary: She still grabs his hand as they run for their lives, still smiles at him, hoping her expression matches the one he remembers. She knows it doesn’t and probably never will, but it will have to do, at least for the time being.


**Title:** Where To Start

**Author:** Angel Leviathan

**Spoilers:** Major 'Parting of The Ways' spoilers. Anything else is fair game.

**Disclaimer:** Doctor Who, characters, concept, etc, aren't mine.

**Notes:** Apologies all round. I swore I wasn't going to write anything like this, just go back and write hopefully amusing, happy things. Meep, I typo-ed TARDIS. Sorry!

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She still grabs his hand as they run for their lives, still smiles at him, hoping her expression matches the one he remembers. She knows it doesn't and probably never will, but it will have to do, at least for the time being. She tries to act in the same manner she did before, tries not to twitch when he touches her, tries to laugh instead of cry when something her Doctor would've said escapes his lips, and tries to behave in the same way that dependable Rose always did. She doesn't even know if that part of her still lives. Maybe it died when he did. If she could truly call it death. 

She still taunts and teases him in the same comfortable way she used to, knowing he would take no real offence, knowing that he would exact revenge later. He always did. Even if it was just putting salt in her tea instead of sugar, watching her disgusted reaction with fond glee. She worries about her own reaction to her words more than his. Scans everything at least three times before she utters it aloud, tries to make words appear spontaneous. She hopes he can't tell. She knows he can. What destroys her most is that she still doesn't want to hurt him. She could choose to be vicious and spiteful and scream at him, demanding her soulmate back, but she knows he's still there. He's still gazing right back at her through different eyes, yet is somebody else entirely. She can't hate him. She'd love to. But she can't bring herself to.

She still tries to convince herself that it is definitely the same man underneath the foreign features. The way he looks at her still tells her he still loves her, that the one she adored has to be in there somewhere. Sometimes she wishes they were entirely different. That would make it easier. Then she could mourn and move on. But each time she thinks she's got to grips with it, something drags her back down. He'll smile or hug her to him, crack a joke, something that sounds so familiar it tears her up inside. She doesn't know whether she wishes he'd stop or forever continue. If he stops it will kill her. If he continues she will never let go.

She wonders if he undergoes the same process again, will she hunt for two men? Will she even mourn the loss of this too familiar stranger? Would she continue to search for the safety of the first Doctor she knew?

She acts every day, every minute of her life that she spends with him. Sometimes it becomes so natural she wonders if it is truly a charade any longer. Sometimes she laughs with open honesty and sometimes the smile really reaches her eyes. It makes her feel guilty. Guilty for behaving in such a way with a man who she feels she shouldn't, knowing he is not entirely her Doctor. But he is. And he can be. That makes it worse. She is well aware that he knows she is acting. She wonders whether he is humouring her, is curious as to why he is silent when he knows everything. He always did. But then, it would hurt to hear herself accused, and hurt more to reply with any depth and honesty. It is easier for them both to smile and nod, hide in the back of their minds and try to believe that this is who they always were. Nothing has changed. That they don't bid each other goodnight and escape into their own worlds instead of sharing a bed and keeping each other warm through the night. They don't ask questions. It would be too great a risk. Destroy the dream that everything is fine, that there is no hurting and suffering, only acceptance of what cannot be reversed. So she still smiles at him, hoping her expression matches the one he remembers. If only because his is not what she recalls.

He finds her one day, months later, in the wardrobe of the TARDIS, curled up in the corner, sobbing with quiet abandon, clutching the battered leather jacket that was once his. And they both know the illusion is truly shattered.

**Fin**


End file.
